


thin wrists (many wants)

by saltytangerine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gay Bucky Barnes, I'm a sucker for pre-serum Steve and Bucky's dynamic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-serum Steve would be a top if this was rated higher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-11-23 09:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: want is powerful but rejection is terrifying





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first official fanfic in approximately eight years, please be gentle with me, my dudes.  
> I used write a lot on livejournal back in 2004-2006 so it's... Been a while  
> Tumblr: saltytangerine

He doesn't have to move, he doesn't have the courage to speak, to make his intentions clear. He just wants. He wants and he prays to a God that he knows isn't going to grant him what he wants, but lord does he want.

 

He's right there, sat on the window ledge, the Brooklyn sunset tinting his shirt orange and bringing out the red in his chestnut hair. He holds a cigarette between two fingers, his wrist resting on his bent knee while his foot is braced on the window frame and he isn't even looking at him and in return, he isn't listening to him speak. Ash collects in the same old spot in the corner and the rising smoke will eventually turn the ceiling yellow. He wants so badly.

 

It hurts and he feels like a cliche in a bad romance novel. He can't risk losing him; being friends is better than having nothing. His own wrists are slight, but they both know that they're strong in their own way. They give him strength when he tries to throw a punch and they hold him up when fevers rack through him and he can't get comfortable unless he's on all fours. It's an illusion, he tells himself, but he's never felt more wanted and cherished than when he's sick. He hates being ill but he craves the touch it elicits from him. But when it is summer and his chest is clear; he doesn't stop wanting.

 

He hasn't drawn a thing in days and he's stopping himself from even trying because each time the graphite meets the paper, he wants to draw him. It's worse when he's in the room, like he is now. Every movement he makes is art. He stretches to hear the soft crack of his elbows when he lifts his arms above his head and he's a model. He smiles at him while setting down a spoon on the kitchen table and he knows that he could draw a thousand faces and not one would come close to capturing the beauty in that simple facial expression. He wants to try anyway, to keep the smile for himself for when it all has to end.

 

They have never been restrictive with touch. It is never a point of bother when his smaller frame is tucked under his shoulder and he's shaken like a rag doll. People call them brothers and at times it stings deep, but when it's winter and they're both cold, he doesn't care. His eyes close when he feels him come up behind him, after work, and clap a hand on his shoulder. One evening he leaned down to see how far he had gotten with the crossword and their cheeks touched. He was sorry that his bravery, for once, was not greater than his want.

 

He's heard rumors about him, that the women are a ruse and he knows that they're true. He knows the name of every man that he's ever kissed-- he can't keep his mouth shut around him, perhaps brothers is all they can ever be. Each name that isn't his burns, but even if they shared a kiss, he wouldn't need to be told his own name. His mouth is pretty, slightly downturned and his lower lip is not quite as thick as his own. His smile is what hurts the most, it's always there and he's sure that the reason it's there so much is because most of the time, he's causing it. At least, he wants it to be true.

 

He drinks one beer in the evening, even if they have eaten or not. Most of the time it's just he who eats after fighting with him because there just aren't enough potatoes to make the meal stretch and he's the one with the thin wrists. Every time they “fight” over the meal choices, it is brought up: his size, his health, but when it is, it doesn't feel like a lecture, nor does it feel like he thinks he is broken. He wants him to stick around for the long haul. With only a belly full of cheap beer, he doesn't want him to go out but he never stops him. He allows him to make his own choices-- he's the bigger, older one. He just wishes he would spend the evening with him when he's loose and warm. He wants them to fall asleep together.

 

He wants to wake in the mornings, his chest pressed to his back, small arms wrapped around his waist, thin thighs cradling his, like they did on Christmas morning. He's never felt bigger than when he sees his sleepy smile in the mornings and he wants to be the cause of it. The thought of losing his sleepy smiles and the flush of his cheeks in summer makes him want for nothing to change.

 

He wants to be able to tell him not to worry about his heart because he keeps it safe. He wants to tell him that he could survive on his water-thin soup and the way that he strokes his hair when his fever breaks. He only wants to be loved by him.

 

His own hair is golden and his eyes are blue; he was only eight when he told him that there he saw green there too. He's spent time since then looking to see if there's any green in his blue eyes too. There isn't-- they're perfectly blue, and he doesn't believe in artistic descriptions of eyes anyway. He sees him squinting in the sunlight and asks why doesn't he look away from the sunset. The laugh it draws from him isn't something he could ever recreate. He could draw and attempt to imitate his likeness, the high slope of his nose and his cheekbones, the way his lips rarely touch, but that laugh-- he wants to remember it forever.

 

He has never wanted anything as undeniably as he wants him. He won't say a word and he won't let him know. They're safe like this and silence is stronger than him and his thin wrists.


	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sits on the window ledge and smokes too many cigarettes, and as they talk, bathed in the sunset; for a while it feels like that summer, when he stole his first kiss. He represents each of his firsts: kisses, dances, love. It's a dangerous title he holds and still nothing scares him more than the thought of letting him down. Girls do little to excite him but he knows the role that he has been cast and he knows that he is the best actor in Brooklyn. He kisses too many girls that don’t taste like him and he only thinks of him when they touch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all stucky I write is all in the same universe, everything is linked, but boy, am I bad at posting in chronological order. These chapters are two sides of the same story, happening at the same time, this event FOLLOWS [it's all between strangers anyway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351014) and [ expiratory wheeze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432449) and PROCEEDS [preferences (fall's gift)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/18383231). The "event" that this narrates will be posted soon-ish, before endgame. 
> 
> If it isn't clear, this particular fic is set the year that Sarah Rogers dies, when Steve is 18. ALSO pls, I'm not saying Sarah wouldn't have been supportive of Steve/Bucky, I'm just saying that both boys are dramatic fucks and this is written from their POV. 
> 
> I wasn't actually going to write this, but I got a lovely comment from [possibleplatypus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibleplatypus/pseuds/possibleplatypus) who then prompted me to write Bucky's side of things, so man, you should be careful what you wish for because this is 1k of pining that isn't gonna get fully resolved here and it's even more painful than the first chapter.

Effective communication has never been his forte. He can talk and talk around in circles and to California and back, but words mean little when his actions deafen them. Empty words and conversations become commonplace and he wishes he could go back to the way they were before, before he wanted him with every fibre of his being.

There's no justification; he tells them both that it's for his own good, that his mother would be proud of the man he's helping him become. He remembers her suspicious looks when she would catch him sneaking out of his room before the sun rose and her disapproving looks towards him still hurt him to this day. He started using the window more often, desperate to spend time with him, to kiss him; using their stolen time to make love in the bedroom next to hers. She asked him, on her deathbed, to look after him, to find him a good girl to marry; she broke his heart while her son was arguing with the doctor about the cost of cough suppressants.

He told him that he was with him, until the end of the line; his hand on his shoulder, sincere and warm. He moved in with him and for a week they shared his bed, like they always had, until the nightmares begun. Kisses were rejected, he turns his head away in regret and whispers that they aren't children anymore; they _can't_ want this. He asks him if he wants him to move out, for their lives that had become one to become two again. The pink of his cheeks is beautiful and even as he's tearing them apart, all he can think of is how perfect he is. He says no, so he stays.

In the nighttime, he sleeps beside him, possibly the hardest part of their new arrangement. Only short months ago did he wake to his blond hair fanned across his chest, happiness across his sleeping face. He turned on the lamp last night and he felt fat tears on his cheeks before he could stop them. They stay to opposite sides of the bed, both too afraid to go into her bedroom and take the bed that is in there. He clings to the fear and still enjoys falling asleep to his warmth beside him. There he is, so close, and he wants to go back to how it was, he wants to hold him again, guilt-free.

The men he seeks out, by the docks, are older than him and they're bigger than him. He makes sure to choose ones that don't remind him of him, but it doesn't matter, because when he's pressed against the wall, it never feels as good as it did with the perfect man he leaves in the apartment at night. He wants him and he tortures them both by telling him about the men, hoping he will forget about the nights they spent together; how they celebrated his 18th birthday.

He sits on the window ledge and smokes too many cigarettes, and as they talk, bathed in the sunset; for a while it feels like that summer, when he stole his first kiss. He represents each of his firsts: kisses, dances, love. It's a dangerous title he holds and still nothing scares him more than the thought of letting him down. Girls do little to excite him but he knows the role that he has been cast and he knows that he is the best actor in Brooklyn. He kisses too many girls that don’t taste like him and he only thinks of him when they touch him.

He can't stop himself from touching him, a hand on his shoulder when he comes in from work, an arm around him when they walk home together after he's found with grazed knuckles in an alley. He can't help but notice the fights are more frequent and although he knows he's the reason why, he still won't kiss him again, no matter how he badly wants to. Bruises curl around his eye and his knuckles are permanently red, not having a chance to heal over before he splits them open again. He wishes he could kiss his hands and make them stop stinging, that he could kiss the sensitive skin of the inside of his wrist, that maybe he would turn his hand and cup his cheek like he used to.

When he's half asleep, on the couch, he announces that she's been dead for three months and he should go out and try to live like the living. He asks if he will take him to find a girl to dance with. He shakes his head and the clawing at his stomach begs him to tell him and his pretty pillowy lips that he'll dance with him. Instead he waits until he's fallen asleep, and he drinks most of the stolen bottle of whiskey he keeps under the sink. He can’t watch him dance with a girl, lost in their pretty skirts as they spin, so he sleeps at the kitchen table and dreams of dancing with him; the only thing he wanted since he was nine.

He moves out anyway, unable to stay in the house where his mother haunts him for treating her son poorly. He rents a room in another building only a block away. He promises that he will come if he needs him, that he will drop everything like he has done for over a decade, if he falls ill, just to let him know. When they embrace, it burns and he doesn't stop himself from leaving one last kiss at his temple before pulling away. They both cry and they both pretend not to see the others tears as he leaves with even less money in his pockets and a new emptiness in his heart. His new place overlooks the river and when the snow falls, the icy water looks more inviting than his empty room.

Sometimes in the night, his wrist aches and he remembers what it was like to be a boy again, sleeping side by side with him. He is weak, like his wrist was and with it he spent two months in plaster, waiting to heal. He won't let her haunt him any longer and he needs to heal himself. So while the snow falls outside, he turns on the lamp by his bed and finds a scrap of paper and a pencil, to tell him what he wants.

 

_“Stevie,_

_I'm sorry, I was wrong. I don't seem to be doing much of anything right these days. Meet me at mine, on Friday, after work. I want to make things right again._

_Yours,_

_Bucky.”_

 

He folds the paper twice and jams it into his coat pocket. He will only be out in the snow for just a few minutes and then he can be home again, thrumming with excitement until Friday comes. He knows his hearing is bad and he will be able to slide the paper under the door without him noticing. He isn't sure if he breathes while he runs to his place, taking the stairs two at a time, his foot catching on the sixth step, just like it has done every time he's come up these stairs in the last eleven years. He wants to knock, to see his face while he hands him the letter; he might even talk to him rather than give him the paper. But he doesn't, his hand stops just before his knuckles hit the wood. He crouches down and just as he's planned, he slides the paper under the door, onto the mat, next to where he keeps his shoes. He's ready to tell him what he wants.

 


End file.
